


The After

by demonvampire180



Series: Like Fire [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Dependency, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mental Abuse, Mental Anguish, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-02-06 03:57:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12809115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonvampire180/pseuds/demonvampire180
Summary: How long has it been since he escaped? He can't even remember but he can remember every detail of the past seven years. Has he gone mad? Has he made a mistake? Questions and uncertainty plague him and he feels like there's no way out.





	The After

**Author's Note:**

> The final installment. Please enjoy.

The clock reads 1:45 AM, green lights blinking on and off as if it was the middle of December, and Christmas was approaching. The numbers are mocking me, watching as I fall apart little by little. I sit at the edge of the window, musty, possibly moth-ball infested, red drapes flapping around me. The frame of the window is solid but I can hear every creek as I shift my weight so that my cocked leg stops falling asleep.

Whisps of grey-white smoke curl around my face before drifting out the open window of this piece of shit, run down, gaudy ass motel I've holed myself up in. The burn of nicotine soothes me like the warmth of a mothers embrace after a tough day. The taste of cancer and death make me feel more alive than I have in months. I inhale deeper, watching the white paper turn black as it turns to ash.

My arms are covered with goosebumps, my naked flesh taking the full brunt force of nature's wrath. It barely even fazes me because my mind is wandering, thinking back on the last seven years of my life. What was I doing? Where was I going? Who was I becoming? The questions burn my consciousness because I have no answers. The entire time I was being consumed by him – by that man who doesn't know how to smile – and I was enjoying it. I think. Was I?

A pile of ash drops three stories below, splattering unseen on the frosted concrete sidewalk. Sighing I put the cigarette out and drop it into the glass ashtray by my foot. Immediately I go for another before realizing that I've smoked the entire pack, the butts stacked like the leaning tower of Pisa. If he were here he would belittle me, maybe punish me, but he's not. God I wish he were. If he were here he would make it so I couldn't think. I wouldn't think of the ache in my empty heart or the pounding unease in my brain. I would go back to feeling emptiness rather than unforgiving loneliness. I hate this. I want it to be done. I wish it was over.

My face is wet with tears as I slide from the window sill onto the disgusting, outdated carpet. My fingers slide into my short tresses and pull. Everything hurts; I'm dying. The clock on the table reads 3:00 AM, continuing it's tirade on my mental health. If he were here I would be wrapped up in his arms, sleeping peacefully, my only worry if he would wake up in one of his moods. A howl of anguish escapes as I begin to rock, my eyes wide and tired. I've made a mistake. There's nothing I can do now.

 

I have made a mistake.

 


End file.
